


a feeling of autumn

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationships, Drarry Halloween-fest, First Kiss, Fluff, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Slice of Life (ish), Tags to be added, Trans Charlie Weasley, Trans Draco Malfoy, Trans Male Character, get-together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-09 16:15:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 13,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12280038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: After the war, things are different.After the war, Harry and Draco get to know each other.





	1. cauldron

**Author's Note:**

> here we go! I've decided to participate in the drarry Halloween fest, hosted on Tumblr. I've also decided that there's not enough trans Draco fic in the world so this will fix that, too.
> 
> this is going to be fairly self-indulgent; i'm also banking on readers understanding that the animosity draco and harry had in canon has, post-war, faded mostly. i'll touch on it in some parts, explore the depth of their relationship--but really, animosity in general between draco and the goldren trio has subsided. 
> 
> not to mention i haven't written anything HP in... ages. _ages_. i may be a little rusty but i'll do my best. 
> 
> also, disclaimer that draco's trans experiences are based on my own, and those of my friends. his feelings/etc may differ from your own, and that's okay, etc etc etc.
> 
> i think that's all i've got to say for now. here's hoping i manage to finish every prompt! 
> 
> hope you all enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mishap with an improperly cleaned cauldron is how it all starts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go! i'm several days late getting these posted but i didn't actually find out about the fest until tuesday, and i've spent all that time writing chapters and polishing them. 
> 
> as the primary author's note said, this is a lot of self indulgent fluffiness; also, of course, trans draco. 
> 
> enjoy!

“This is your fault.”

Weasley opens his mouth to protest, but snaps it shut moments later. “Yeah,” he admits grudgingly.

Draco shivers. “Any idea how to _fix_ this, Weasley?” He snaps with chattering teeth. The potions classroom is hellishly cold, as always, and matters aren’t helped by the fact their potion-gone-wrong has vanished their robes and shirts. Why just their robes and shirts, Draco doesn’t know. He figures he ought to be thankful it wasn’t _all_ of their clothes.

“Er. Run to our common rooms and get spares?”

Draco’s arms, already crossed over his chest, tighten. It’s bad enough that their situation is garnering stares, he can’t imagine hurrying through the castle like this. He tells Weasley as such.

“Well, then, you can stay shirtless?” Weasley looks genuinely puzzled. “And cold?”

Draco just scowls. He’s somewhat thankful the buffoon isn’t paying too much attention to the faint lines of fabric crossing over Draco’s chest but at the same time, the lack of acknowledgement is frustrating. If Weasley weren’t so oblivious, perhaps he’d realize _why_ Draco is so reluctant to go gallivanting around the castle in nothing but his trousers and binder.

“Ron, honestly,” Granger intervenes. “You’re both lucky Seamus has taken to keeping spare shirts in his bag.” In each hand she holds a crisp white shirt and Draco snatches one up without hesitation. As he turns to give himself some semblance of privacy, he doesn’t miss Potter staring at him.

He hurriedly buttons the shirt and mutters a quick, “thank you,” over his shoulder at Granger. Then, he gathers up his things and flees.

 

 

 

“It was his fault,” Draco mumbles on the common room couch, Blaise at his side.

“It was the cauldron,” Blaise counters.

“Weasley picked the cauldron!”

Blaise tilts his head in acknowledgement. “He couldn’t have known it’d cause that reaction.”

“He _should_ have checked to make sure it was clean.” Draco scrubs an irritated hand over his face and sighs.

“I’m sure no one noticed.”

Draco’s sigh morphs into a barking laugh, mirthless. “They noticed. Potter noticed. In fact, I’m quite sure the only person who didn’t was Weasley himself.”

Blaise smirks. “Not that surprising.”

Draco doesn’t reply, just pinches the bridge of his nose.

 

 

 

He’s not all that surprised when Potter takes the seat beside him in potions the next afternoon. He eyes his classmate wearily. He’s been hearing whispers all day, and no matter how much Blaise insists it’s in his head, Draco can’t quite shake the paranoia. Harry bloody Potter sitting beside him only makes things worse.

“Are you alright?” Potter finally asks once their assignment has been given—nothing practical, today, just reading and taking notes.

Draco glares. “Why wouldn’t I be.” He turns pointedly back to his book and picks up his quill.

Potter doesn’t relent. “No one is giving you trouble about yesterday, right?” His voice is just hushed enough that no one else is paying them any mind.

Fingers curled painfully tight around his quill, Draco shakes his head jerkily. “Everything is fine. I’m not some damsel you need to save, Potter.”

Anger and embarrassment swirl in an unflattering blush on his face. “That’s not—fuck off, Malfoy, I’m trying to be nice.” With that, Potter also turns back to his book and takes his notes so forcefully the quill tip breaks off three separate times.

Draco groans. “Oh for the love of—stop it, before you do any more damage.” With a softly murmured spell he clears Potter’s parchment of messy ink blots, and fixes the quill tip one last time. “I am fine,” he adds. “No one is harassing me, not to my face. And even if they were, I can handle it.”

Potter stares at him for a long, silent moment. Eventually, he seems satisfied. He nods and returns to his notes with a lighter hand.

 

 

 

Draco looks over as Potter sits down. “Can I help you?” He can’t keep the bite out of his tone.

Potter is unfazed. “Not particularly. It’s a nice day, this is a nice spot to study.”

“I can leave you to it, if you like.” Draco’s fingers twitch but he doesn’t start to pack up right away. Something tells him…

“There’s enough room for both of us, isn’t there?” Potter asks, rhetorically, without looking at Draco. He pulls out his own books and a sheet of parchment and gets to work.

Here, by the lake, it _is_ a nice spot to study. It’s sunny, and just the right amount of warm, and the sounds of the lake are soothing. Draco’s been daydreaming on and off for the better part of an hour and feels content to continue _pretending_ to do homework even with Potter beside him.

“How long—er, I mean.”

It takes a few moments for Potter’s stammering words to break through the haze of Draco’s daydreaming. “Pardon?”

“How long have you been—or, known—or, fuck, I…”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “That’s not really something…”

Potter pales. “Right, yeah, sorry, forget it.” Potter doesn’t run. He shoves his face deeper into his charms book and falls silent.

“I’ve known since I was seven, and began transitioning at nine.” Draco says finally.

Potter freezes. His whole body goes tense and in turn, Draco feels his own body start to seize up. He’s immediately ready to bolt, or defend himself, or whatever it takes depending on how Potter will react.

“Your parents let you? Doctors let you?” He asks with a note of disbelief taking over his voice.

Draco shrugs and decides he can’t look at Potter and have this conversation. “I’m well aware that muggles have some backwards ideas regarding gender and sexuality, but you’ve surely realized wizards don’t hold those same views, for the most part.”

Potter nods. “Just, the whole pureblood thing.”

“I’m still a pureblood, whether I’m a man or a woman.” His gaze flicks to Potter momentarily, just from the corner of his eyes. “I’m a man.”

“I know,” Potter replies. Suddenly and momentarily, his tone is confident. “I know,” he says again.

“What are you doing here?” Draco asks. “You can’t tell me it’s really because you wanted to _study_.”

Potter pinks and scowls. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.” When Draco opens his mouth to give a response similar to earlier, Potter hurries to continue. “Not because I think you’re a girl, or weak. Just…”

Potter sits back on his hands and tilts his head to the sky. “We’ve all gone through a lot, right?”

Draco jerks his head, _yes_.

“I’m sick of fighting, all the time. And I’m sick of… I don’t know. Not caring?”

“I don’t think you’ve ever had that problem.”

Potter gives him a rueful smile. “You’d be surprised. It takes a lot of restraint.” He waves off the loose sentence. “I think I could do better is all.”

“So that’s why you’re here, to do… better.”

“I guess. Best place to start, right?”

Draco nods to nothing in particular. He lets the moment stretch until Potter has relented and picked up one of the textbooks, begun to read for real.

Then, Draco asks, “I suppose you’re wondering why I haven’t had surgery?”

Potter pinks in the cheeks and it puts Draco at ease. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Draco regards him carefully. “Not yet, I won’t.”

“Yet?” Potter takes the bait after a few quiet moments.

“I think you’re trying to become my friend, Potter. And friends tell each other things. But we’re not there, not right now.” Feigning nonchalance, Draco rolls his head and shoots Potter what he hopes is an easy, relaxed, open expression. “Let’s give it some time.”

Potter’s eyes are wide and bright but the curl of his mouth is determined. “Yeah, alright.”


	2. spiders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why is it _always_ spiders?

Draco looks over at the overly loud, absolutely obnoxious sound of Weasley gulping in fear. “Really, Weasley? You’ve flown dragons and helped defeat Voldemort but you’re scared of spiders.”

He gets a half-arsed glare in response.

Draco just shrugs and lets the arachnid continue crawling across his hands. He switches between his left and right so the spider always has somewhere to run that isn’t up the sleeves of Draco’s robes.

Weasley starts to look green after a while and has to excuse himself. Draco smiles to himself and continues playing with the spider until the seat next to him is occupied by his newest kind of-sort of friend.

“You should know, that’s the longest and closest Ron has been near a spider since we almost got eaten by Aragog and his children.”

Draco stops, intrigued if a little wary. He’s only startled into action by the spider trying to inch it’s way under his sleeve. He resumes his methodical shifting from hand to hand, and speaks. “Aragog?”

“Hagrid’s acromantula. He lived in the forest until, uh, sixth year. Then he died. I think he’s still got spawn out there, even after the war though.” Potter shudders. “Anyway, I just meant, it’s actually pretty impressive Ron didn’t immediately pass out when Professor brought them out.”

Draco hums noncommittally. “I think they’re interesting,” he admits when the conversation has lulled for a while.

“Yeah?” Potter sounds genuinely curious, which is as pathetic as the fact that Draco is _delighted_ by his tone.

“I don’t really know why. I just… do.” He shrugs, sheepish.

“I think I know what you mean. I don’t mind ‘em, really. Acromantulas are a whole other story, but regular spiders,” he nods to the one scuttling around Draco’s palms, “they’re alright. Dealt with them a lot at the Dursleys.”

“The manor is chock full of them.” Draco says. “Most of the rooms are unoccupied.” _Especially these days,_ he thinks, given it’s only his mother living there now, with one house elf. “When I was little I’d watch them spin webs in the empty rooms.”

Potter nods along. “I did the same thing, when I lived in the cupboard. Wasn’t much else to do in there, so I used to try and see if I could make out shapes in the webs.”

Draco tries not to let his discomfort show on his face. “And after the cupboard?” He asks, though the words taste like ash on his tongue.

Potter isn’t as affected. “Wasn’t so bad in my actual room. Grimmauld Place is still crawling with them, though. It’s like a never-ending infestation.”

The professor calls for them to return their arachnids and before Draco can stand, Potter holds out his hand. “Let me,” he says easily. And, just as easily, Draco passes the spider along to Potter’s outstretched palm. Once the spider is back in the cage at the front of the class, Potter just nods to Draco before returning to his regular seat.

When Professor Mysthle assigns ten inches on acromantulas and their origins and habits, Draco can’t help but look at Potter. Potter is looking right back, with an amused glint in his eye. Despite everything, Draco smiles too, small and private and gone in an instant.

 

 

 

“You should come see Hagrid with me,” Potter tells him a few hours later. They’re at their study spot by the lake. It’s become something of a tradition. If one can start a tradition in less than a week. It’s not every day that they meet, but often. Sometimes Draco spends the time out here alone; he’s pretty sure Potter comes out here, alone, too. Idly, in his spare time, Draco wonders if Potter finds it as lackluster alone as he does. 

“Why should I do that?” Draco asks as he digs around in his bag.

Potter gives him a funny look. “Because Hagrid raised an acromantula. Who better to help us write that paper?”

Draco pulls out his copy of _Fantastic Beasts and Wear to Find Them_. “The assigned reading, maybe?”

Potter keeps staring. His funny look morphs smoothly into unimpressed.

“Why not take the rest of the Golden Trio instead?” Draco tries again.

“Hermione already wrote the paper, _and_ already let Ron copy off her.”

Draco’s surprise must show on his face, because Potter laughs.

“They’re _dating_ , she takes a little bit of pity on him now and then. Especially when it comes to spiders.”

“Let me guess, she’s the one tasked with squishing them at home and disposing of the remains?”

Potter stares.

“No, no, how ridiculous of me." Draco amends. "Granger is tasked with squishing them, but true to her nature she captures them in spells or little bottles and releases them back into the wild, hm?”

Potter grins. “C’mon, if we head over now we can get there before the tea is ready and we won’t have to try his biscuits.”

Draco shoves his books back into his bag and follows.

 

 

 

An hour and one potentially chipped tooth later, he and Potter are walking back to the castle.

“Sorry, I didn’t think—?”

“It’s fine, Potter. Nothing a charm can’t fix.” Draco waves off the concern. His mouth doesn’t even hurt at this point, and in all honestly claiming the rock hard biscuit chipped his tooth was probably an exaggeration. He doesn't tell Potter that, though.

"Why did he stop teaching Care of Magical Creatures, anyway?" Draco asks with a last pathetic rub at the side of his jaw. 

Potter shrugs. "After the war, I think he just needs some time. I keep telling him he should do it again, or ask Mysthle if he needs a hand or something."

"He certainly knows plenty," Draco agrees. 

Silence falls for a few blessed moments, until Potter breaks it. Predictably. “How did you know you were, uh.”

“The term is transgender,” Draco supplies with only a hint of irritation in his tone. Itn the time they’ve spent together since, Potter hasn’t asked a single thing about Draco’s gender, aside from that first day after the cauldron incident. It’s been both a blessing and a curse—a blessing, because Draco isn’t eager to discuss it; a curse, because Draco has been on edge waiting for it to come up.

“Right.” Potter nods and Draco can see him filing the word away for later. He already knew it, but he’s clearly resolving himself to actually _say_ it. “How did you know you were transgender?”

Draco ponders the question for a while and slows his steps. Potter slows to match his pace and though it isn’t far to the castle, Draco already knows they’re going to be pushing the limits of curfew.

“I just did,” he says.

“You just did?”

Draco nods. “It’s just something I felt. Something I _knew_ , before anything else. Same way I know I’ve got magic.”

Potter’s eyes flicker with understanding. “Ah.”

“I told my parents and it took some adjusting but…” Draco quirks his lips in a rueful grin. “Father always wanted a son, so he was rather eager to accommodate me.”

“And your mother?”

“She didn’t mind in the slightest.” And though it sounds flippant, it’s true. Something in his tone must give him away because Potter gets that same satisfied look to his face he gets whenever he’s sure nothing is amiss. When everything is just fine. “Well, this has been fun,” Draco mockingly announces as they finally hit the steps. “But if we don’t hurry, we’re going to end up caught by Peeves or Filch. Or both.”

Potter just grins. “See you tomorrow, Malfoy.”

Draco is already walking away and throws a flippant wave over his shoulder. Potter can’t see his own grin—again, small and private, but lasting the entire walk to the Slytherin commons—and that’s just fine by Draco.


	3. love potions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who thought brewing _love potions_ was a good idea? No, really—Draco would like a word with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a fun chapter! i took my inspiration for the scents a bit from canon, a bit from other fics, and also from mud-in-my-blood's candles (specifically, her draco candle, which i have and love).
> 
> as always, enjoy!

“What’d you smell?” Weasley asks him.

Draco purses his lips. “Why would I tell you that?” Even as he speaks, he feels a blush rising to his cheeks.

“I’ll tell you what I smell,” Weasley offers politely.

Draco peers around him to where Granger and Potter are still stirring their own _amortentia_. “I can hazard a guess.”

Weasley pinks, not quite red enough to match his hair. “Whatever.”

Draco knows the polite, _friendly_ thing to do would be to admit what he smells. But shame burns his cheeks and the nape of his neck and keep him silent. Weasley eyes him suspiciously until he apparently decides it’s not worth it, and turns to watch Granger. They’re disgustingly affectionate, Draco has come to realize; he’s only a _little_ bitter.

He notes the success of the potion on his parchment, marks down what he smells and obscures the words with a notice-me-not charm. When he looks up, Weasley is at Granger’s table and Potter is right beside him. Him, as in Draco. As in, peering into their potion and taking a strong whiff.

“I think yours brewed better than ours.”

“Of course it did,” Draco agrees.

Potter grins. “What do you smell?”

“Why do you lot think it’s alright to ask that?” Draco snaps. He falters partway through, blush returning tenfold, and Potter’s grin only widens.

“Curious.”

Draco tries to think of an excuse, or a lie as far as what he smells. What he says instead is, “what do _you_ smell, then, Potter?”

“Apples, uh…” Potter sniffs again, overdramatic. “Lake water, and oak trees. No, more like broomsticks, I think. A hint of treacle tart.”

Draco resists the urge to toy with his own hair, which just this morning he’d lathered in green apple soap like he does every morning. “Ah.”

Potter smirks. “Your turn.”

Draco can’t bite his tongue; fair's fair, after all. He opens his mouth to answer when Slughorn steps to the front of the class again and asks them to bottle their potions. Draco flashes a truly apologetic look at Potter, and gets only the same smirk in return.

 

 

 

Unsurprisingly, when Potter falls next to him in their spot by the lake, the first words out of his mouth are, “so, what did the potion smell like to you?”

Draco groans. “I’d hoped you forgot.”

Potter shakes his head. “The suspense has been killing me all day.”

Draco bites his tongue on a comeback and sighs. “It smelled…” He wrinkles his nose and tries to recall the scent that seemed so permeating and suffocating earlier today. “A bonfire, but in the winter time. With fresh-fallen snow, and.” Draco ducks his head. “Lake water,” he mutters.

“What was that last bit?”

“Lake water,” Draco says again, marginally louder.

Potter is right beside him and leaning in closer. “Still didn’t catch it.”

“Lake water, you prat!” Draco snaps; he’s loud enough that a nearby crow squawks unhappily and flutters off. “Happy now?”

Potter _does_ look happy. “Yes, actually.”

“Oh, _good_ ,” Draco drawls. “Glad to be of service.”

Draco busies himself with getting out his books to study, though for the life of him he’s not sure what homework he’d intended to work on tonight. He’s switching out his _Hogwarts: a History_ for another text a couple times before Potter reaches out and a lays a hand over his.

Draco freezes.

“I’d say we’re about friends now, right?” Potter asks casually. Asks as though he’s not burning Draco’s skin (in a wonderful way) by touching him, as though Draco hadn’t admitted to clearing smelling _Potter_ in the amortentia.

“Perhaps.” Draco replies cautiously.

“Can I call you Draco, then? Seems stupid to keep calling you Malfoy. If we’re friends.”

Draco blinks and knows his eyes are owlishly wide. “Sure?” He asks, barely hearing his own reply.

“Great, then you’ll call me Harry?”

Another blink. “Sure?” He says again.

Potter—Harry seems pleased. He squeezes Draco’s hand briefly. “Great. What were you going to work on first? Maybe we can compare notes?”

Draco shrugs. “I don’t… remember.”

“Perfect, how about we look at Transfiguration? I’m dreading that one, bloody twenty inches! You’d think she’d go a little easier on us, all things considered.”

A laugh bursts from Draco’s mouth unbidden. “It’s McGonagall, she’d _never_ go easy on us.”

Harry—Potter— _Harry_ grins. “Too right.”


	4. bats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For once, their predicament is not Weasley's fault, but Harry's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is one is short and simple!

“This is your fault,” Draco announces. His voice rebounds down the seemingly endless corridor.

“Yeah, it is,” Harry agrees. “I didn’t think it’d be a big deal!”

“If _you_ had been the only one out after curfew, it probably wouldn’t have been.” Draco points out plainly. “But it isn’t like McGonagall could punish me and _not_ you for breaking the same rule at the same time.” He raises his wand and casts a wordless _lumos_ to guide them along. “It’s not the worst detention, I suppose.”

Harry hums in agreement. “No supervision, at least.”

Draco’s neck warms. “Right.” He inhales shakily. “And no traipsing through the Forbidden Forest with nothing but the Chosen One and a slobbering mutt to keep you safe.”

Harry’s face does a strange thing, as though it’s caught between amusement and annoyance. “Hate it when people call me that.”

The word is out of Draco’s mouth before he can think—“sorry.”

Harry comes out of whatever emotionally confused, short-lived stupor he fell into. “No, no, it’s not—Ron calls me that sometimes, just to be an arse. I hate it when _The Prophet_ does it, or when people at the Ministry call me that. It’s not my name, it’s just something some wizard called me that stuck. Same as ‘the boy who lived,’ and all the rest of them.”

Draco doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says the first thing that comes to mind. “You didn’t ask me anything about... me last week.” He cringes, internally; the words sound so egotistic, even though he's sure Harry knows he doesn't mean it that way. 

Harry’s expression shifts to entirely amused. “You’ve been keeping track?”

“You’ve been predictable,” Draco explains with a put-upon, mostly-for-show scowl. “Seems like you enjoy springing the questions on me at least weekly.”

“Didn’t realize you had me pegged.” Harry says it with a laugh. They both pause when a flicker of movement a few meters in front of them catches their eye. When nothing else moves, they continue walking and Harry keeps talking. “I guess… I don’t want you to think I’m trying to be your friend because you’re transgender.”

“Why on earth would I think that?” Draco asks.

“If everything we talked about revolved around your gender, would you really think I was trying to be your friend?”

“No,” Draco admits. “I’d probably think you were just trying to get into my pants.” He notes the faint blush on Harry’s cheeks and marks it as a win.

“Well, I’m not—I mean.” He inhales, exhales, repeats. “I just mean, I want to be your friend regardless. I don’t _need_ to know everything about you. I am curious, but it’s also not really my business.”

Draco grins again; Blaise has dubbed it the ‘Potter Grin,’ which is both upsettingly accurate and terribly boring. “I don’t mind, if you do want to ask. If it’s not something I want to answer, I’ll just… tell you. That’s what _friends_ do, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

Despite the conversation, they continue walking in silence. A few bats cling to the ceiling here or there, and Harry shoos them away with a particular charm shown to them just before detention began.

“This might be too personal, but do you _want_ to get, y’know. Surgery?”

Draco’s neck warms again and it bleeds up to his face and he’s thankful Harry isn’t actually looking at him. “Yes. Definitely yes.”

Harry nods. “That’s good,” he says, a touch awkward.

Draco can’t help it. He laughs. He covers his mouth with a hand and snickers into his palm.

Harry doesn’t even comment. His smile seems to be emboldened by the awkwardness, by Draco’s laughter. Not even the large clump of bats at the end of the corridor can wash the grin off Harry’s face.


	5. banned potions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Really, Draco would just love to give a piece of his mind to whoever thought love potions were a worthwhile invention.

Draco stares, a bit transfixed, as McGonagall tears into Slughorn without ever raising her voice. The elderly, plump professor looks suitably chastised toward the end of it, though Draco knows that won’t stop him from doing something similar in the future.

Draco’s gaze slides to the chair beside him, where a dopey Weasley sits. Dopier than usual, that is.

“You should have known better,” McGonagall concludes.

“Of course, Headmistress.” Slughorn nods rapidly. “Have you, ah, already taken care of the students that—?”

“That started this whole thing? Yes. Now you just need to cure this poor lot and we can put this behind us.” She nods curtly and leaves the room, robes trailing after her in an elegant sprawl.

Slughorn claps his hands together and disrupts the momentary quiet. “Well then, why don’t we turn this into a lesson while we’re at it?” He doesn’t wait for a response, likely knowing that he’ll get one less-than-enthusiastic. “Get into groups of… however many, doesn’t matter,” Slughorn waves a hand around uncaringly. “And we’ll brew cures to love potion!”

Draco finally raises his hand and speaks without being called on. “Are you really suggesting we brew our own cures and feed them to our classmates?”

A ripple of agreement trickles around the room and Draco enjoys watching Slughorn start to panic.

“No, no, of course not. I’ll—I’ll give out the cures now, I have a stock of them, of course.” He looks guiltily toward the storage cupboard. “But it can still be a good lesson! I won’t always be around to fix things, now will I?” He tacks a huffing, breathless laugh onto the end of his spiel.

Draco rolls his eyes. As Slughorn waddles to the cupboard, the class settles into murmurs.

“You know,” a voice says just over Draco’s head, “this is the second time this has happened to him.” Harry nods at Weasley—who is still gazing lovingly at the ceiling. Draco wonders just _who_ he’s supposed to be in love with right now, since it’s not anyone _in_ the classroom.

“Can’t resist a snack, hm?” Draco replies. He sits back in his chair and looks up at Harry with the now nearly trademarked Potter-Grin.

Harry matches him. “Not a bit.” He looks over to where Granger sits, looking terribly upset. “She knows it’s not really his fault, but…”

Draco hums understandingly. “Can’t blame her.” 

 

 

 

At dinner that evening, Draco does his best to sneak a surreptitious glance at the Gryffindor table. Blaise catches him, but only smirks.

It’s a fifth year who leans over and none-too-subtly whispers, “did you hear? They’re banning love potions from the curriculum.”

“As well they should,” Draco absently replies. “They’re dangerous, especially when Slughorn is teaching.”

“Surprised no one tried to snag Potter with one of those,” Blaise replies. He keeps his gaze coolly trained on Draco, the picture of boredom.

“He mentioned—” Draco stops and feels a pink flush take to his cheeks. A few other Slytherins look over, but he barrels on, anyway. “He mentioned people have tried it in the past, and that’s why he stopped accepting sweets from, well, strangers.” Draco ducks his head after the words are out of his mouth and busies himself with his food.

Blaise continues to smirk until a commotion breaks out three tables down.

“What did you do?” Granger is standing, practically towering over a younger girl with a tight ponytail. Draco’s gaze flicks from her, to Harry sitting on the opposite side of the table, looking queasy. “Did you give him—come with me,” Granger takes the girl by the arm in a gentle but firm grip. She makes eye contact with McGonagall across the room, then marches the fourth year out of the Great Hall.

Weasley—cured since earlier, though still looking a touch worse-for-wear—is already guiding Harry out of the Great Hall as well, no doubt to the infirmary. Draco starts, but Blaise pins him with a look.

Nothing is said between the two of them, but Draco settles uneasily back into his seat and, later, files off to the Slytherin commons with the rest of his house.

 

 

Not that he stays there, of course.

 

 

By the time he gets to the hospital wing, Harry is cured and propped up on pillows with a hectic Madame Pomfrey fussing over him. The minute Draco steps over the doorway, Pomfrey rounds on him.

“No visitors!”

“No—it’s okay,” Harry hurries to assure her. Her hawkish expression snaps to Harry instead and he doesn’t recoil.

“Fine. But only for ten minutes. Then it’s off to bed, for both of you!” Her stare doesn't waver until she turns away and focuses her fussing on checking on the rest of the students scattered about. There aren't many, and the ones who are still laid up don't take need of Pomfrey's help. Draco can feel her eyes on them. 

Draco hurries over and takes the open seat beside Harry’s hospital bed. “Feeling better?”

“Pretty much.” Harry shrugs. “She’s overreacting, so is McGonagall, I think. Not like it could’ve killed me.”

Draco nods even though he doesn’t agree. He flashes back to himself nearly scurrying out of the Great Hall earlier, and reigns in a flinch. “It could’ve been dangerous. Especially if Granger hadn’t realized.”

“Actually, it was Ron,” Harry says with a touch of amusement in his tone. “He was pissed, too. The girl—she's a fourth year, I can't remember her name for the life of me _—_ has detention for a while, which Hermione thinks wasn’t enough but…” Harry shrugs again. “I’m not that upset, really. My fault for taking a sweet, isn’t it?”

“No,” Draco snaps.

Harry startles at the bite in his tone, then breaks into a smile. Maybe Draco could pinpoint one of the many grins Harry has—maybe Draco could name one after himself, just as Blaise had done.

“I should’ve known better,” Harry insists.

“God, Potter, you _know_ that isn’t true.”

Harry keeps smiling. “Back to Potter, are we?”

“You’re being a twat, so yes!” Draco crosses his arms over his chest and looks away. He knows Harry is purposefully riling him up but… Well, Draco is _letting_ him do it. And Harry knows it. It's very circular. 

“I haven’t asked you a question this week, yet.”

Draco doesn’t break posture at the sudden change in subject. “No, you haven’t.” Part of that would be because they spent less time together this week. Or, perhaps Harry just isn’t curious anymore.

“I don’t think I’ve got anything to ask about you being transgender,” Harry admits.

“I never answered you as to _why_ I didn’t get surgery.” Even as he says it, Draco feels queasy. It’s not a big deal, it’s nothing dramatic or _traumatic_ or anything of the sort. And yet, he doesn’t feel quite ready—

“I don’t think I’ve earned that yet.”

Draco _does_ break posture now. He turns and looks at Harry again, mouth dropped open in surprise. “You could ask me something else,” Draco murmurs.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Harry scoots minutely closer to the edge of the bed. “Want to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?”

“Yes.”

The answer comes so fast, without any hesitation. Draco knows a blush is worming its way up his neck and across his face, but Harry is smiling at him _again_ and he can’t be arsed to care about the stupid blush.

"Say," Harry starts again after a couple minutes have passed. "You didn't have to come see me, you know."

"I was concerned. Isn't that what friends do? Get concerned?"

Harry's grinning like he knows a secret and Draco wants to wipe the stupid expression off his face. "Yeah, but, it's not a big deal."

Draco rolls his eyes. "I was worried. I'll see you this weekend, we'll leave around eleven if that works for you?"

"Yeah." 

As Draco stands, Harry reaches for him.

"You don't have to go, yet." 

"Oh yes he does," Madame Pompfrey reminds them from across the room. "Those ten minutes are up!" 

Flashing a not very apologetic smile, Draco shrugs. "See you then, Harry."

As he leaves, Draco feels Harry's gaze on him every step. 


	6. bubbling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory Hogsmeade date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> took a bit of liberty with the prompt for this one; bubbly can mean a lotta things, right? just roll with it.

They earn some odd stares when late morning hits on Saturday and they’re in step together toward Hogsmeade. The only people _not_ staring are Blaise, and Weasley, and Granger. Which doesn’t mean anything, given they’ve all been privy to a good share of Draco’s and Harry’s burgeoning… something. Relationship. It's a relationship. Of sorts. 

People are staring and whispering and _pointing_ and Draco is about ready to turn tail and stalk straight back to the castle but a hand at the small of his back stops him.

“Ignore it, yeah?” Harry murmurs, muffled under his obnoxiously plush Gryffindor scarf.

Draco falters in his next step but nods. “Easier said than done,” he adds for good measure.

Harry shrugs. “Thought you’d be used to it.”

“It’s one thing to be pointed at and whispered about because of the war, because you’re a Death Eater.”

“Former Death Eater,” Harry supplies. Draco doesn’t comment on his helpful addition.

“It’s entirely another to be pointed at and whispered about because you’re on a date with the Savior of the Wizarding World.”

Harry grimaces. “Hate that name,” he mutters.

Draco doesn’t apologize, because he knows the ire isn’t directed at him. A thought dawns on Draco suddenly and again has him about ready to run. Again.

“What if there are reporters?”

Harry shakes his head without missing a beat. “McGonagall took care of that. She’s spelled it so no one outside of Hogwarts faculty and student body can get in, right now. Aside from the shop owners of course.”

Paranoia thrums in Draco’s veins; any one of the shop owners could sell a story to _The Prophet_ , but it’s clear from the look on his face that Harry doesn’t think they will.

“Fine.” Draco declares, a bit unnecessarily. Harry just grins.

 

 

 

Draco ends up sandwiched on a seat in the Hog’s Head between Harry and Weasley, and contemplates his life choices. Blaise had ducked back to the castle early on, claiming homework. Which was a dirty lie, Draco knows, but he couldn’t very well call him out on it. So now he's stuck quite literally in the middle of two best friends, not even wanting to get a word in let alone being able to. He'd wonder where his life went awry, if it didn't feel as though—for the first time in a long time—that things are actually going  _right_. 

Granger is sitting on the other side of Weasley, and keeps shooting Draco sympathetic stares the longer Weasley and Harry natter on.

“Ron,” she cuts in gently. It halts conversation immediately, and Draco wonders if he could master that—it’s clearly a superpower. One that must come in handy; he wonders if he could use it on Blaise, or other Slytherins. “Why don’t you trade spots with Draco?”

“Why? He’s Harry’s date,” Weasley argues distractedly.

“No, really, it’s fine,” Draco finds himself cutting in. He looks over to Harry who just looks amused. Of course he does. "You two have... so much to talk about."

A couple minutes and some awkward shuffling later, Draco and Weasley have switched spots and Draco finds himself both able to breathe and falling into conversation with Granger.

While Harry and Weasley throw themselves deeper into their own chat--about the Cannons, no less--Granger turns to Draco with a spark in her eyes.

Draco knows determination when he sees it.

“You make him happy,” she says. She’s just quiet enough that Draco has to lean in to hear better.

“Good?”

Granger looks caught between the same determination and what could possibly be _fond_ amusement. “I had to explain to him what your binder is, you know. Even Ron knew.” She shakes her head in a definitely fond manner. "Harry couldn't understand. He's awfully thick at times."

Draco nods along, uncomfortable but not so much he wants to bail on the conversation quite yet.

“Sorry, I’m not trying to be awkward, or anything,” Granger says with a distinctly awkward laugh. “I’m just trying to tell you—Harry is… He’s serious about this. He was serious about understanding... He was serious about being your friend and after the whole amortentia incident—the first one, I mean—well…”

Draco’s blush worsens. “That’s nice,” he croaks.

Granger breaks into a smirk. “I think Ron and I ought to get going, don’t you?”

She orders two frothy, bubbling drinks, and once more cuts into Harry and Weasley’s conversation. “Ron, we should go. I wanted to check out the bookstore before we head back.”

To Draco’s immense surprise, the red head doesn’t put up a fuss. He just nods and once more, a few minutes and awkward shuffling later, Draco is back in his seat beside Harry. And the frothy, bubbling drinks are in front of them, deposited with a wink from Granger.

“Your friends are menaces. Granger, in particular.” Draco says, just to say it. Just so Harry’s aware.

“You know,” Harry drawls (and Draco is fairly certain Harry is imitating him, and it’d be annoying if it weren’t so well done). He throws an arm along the back of the booth, across Draco’s shoulders. “If we’re dating, I think that makes them your friends too.”

Draco picks up his drink and takes a sip. The bubbles stick to his upper lip and before he can even reach, Harry wipes them away with his thumb. “Are we dating?”

“This is a date, isn’t it? You said so yourself.”

“Doesn’t mean we’re _dating_. For all we know, this date could go spectacularly wrong at any moment and—!”

Harry leans over and kisses him. They kiss, delicate and easy for several long moments. When they pull away, it’s with a soft and wet sound that tastes like their fizzy drinks.

“I think it’s safe to say we’re dating,” Harry decides.

Draco can only nod.

 

 

 

On the walk back to the castle that evening, Harry picks up their usual routine: the weekly question. “So, you’re transgender.”

Draco only makes a curious noise in response.

“Are you—uh, gay? Or, what?” Harry has one hand shoved in the pocket of his robe, the other is curled around Draco’s.

Draco smiles; it’s hidden by his own, considerably sleeker scarf. “I’m gay, yes.”

Harry nods. Draco watches him out of the corner of his eyes while they walk.

“What about you?” Draco asks as they hit the steps of Hogwarts.

“I don’t really know. I like both.” Harry shrugs. “You know me, I don’t like labels.” He grins, all cheek.

Draco mirrors it until a thought strikes him. "What are we, then?"

"We're dating, I thought we established this."

"No, I know. I mean. Are we boyfriends?" 

Harry's brow furrows and his lips curl with mirth. "I figure, given that's usually what you call two blokes who are dating, isn't it?"

Draco pinks. "Right."

In the distance, a clock chimes to alert students that it’s nearly dinner time.

“I should get back to the common room,” Draco says, abrupt as the chiming. “I don’t want to bring all this,” he gestures to his winter gear, “to dinner.”

“Okay.”

Except, when Draco turns to leave Harry is close at his heels. “Excuse you.” Draco says it quietly but not unkindly.

“I’m going with.”

Draco stops in his tracks and Harry bumps lightly into his back. “No, you’re not.”

“Why not?”

“Because—it’s the Slytherin common room, you’re not exactly a hero in there.”

“Then come to mine, you can drop off your scarf and your robe and we’ll head to the Great Hall together.”

Draco faces Harry slowly. “We just spent upwards of six hours together.”

“And?” Harry’s green eyes are bright with delight.

“I’m not exactly the most popular person in _your_ common room.”

“Now you’re just being obtuse.” Even as he says it, Harry’s expression doesn’t change. “We can stick with Ron and Hermione. No one else will bother us.”

Draco looks back toward the hallway that would take him to the Slytherin common rooms. Then, back at Harry. And back at the hallway again.

Harry takes his hand and tugs, and Draco lets himself be lead the opposite direction.


	7. smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, it _is_ Ronald's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and this brings an end to week one, potions! i've decided that most of my interpretations of the prompts/themes will be pretty fast and loose, but i figure that's half the fun. 
> 
> hope you're all enjoying this so far! thanks for reading!

“You’re as bad as Finnigan, when you want to be, Ronald.” He draws out the name, just to make his irritation abundantly clear.

“I never _want_ to screw up!” Weasley shouts indignantly. “It just happens!”

“Convenient,” Draco sniffs.

Weasley frowns and looks down at their soot-covered clothes. The rim of the cauldron is singed and seems to have gotten the worst of it. Draco and Weasley are just covered in the aftermath: soot, ash, with smoke fluttering around them not yet dispelled.

It's better than their clothes vanishing entirely, at least.

Swiftly, Granger descends on their table. She funnels the smoke into the tip of her wand, vanishing it to who-knows-where. Then she turns on both Draco and Weasley with her wand still raised. Slowly and carefully she drags the tip of her wand over their shirts and sucks up the soot as well.

With two final flourishes of her wand, once in Draco face and once in Weasley's, the evidence of their failed potion is gone.

“Thanks,” Draco tells her. Weasley thanks her with a quick and sweet kiss that leaves her blushing.

“Er, it’s Friday,” Slughorn haltingly announces. “Why don’t we call it a day, hm?” The class practically erupts in chatter and rustling as everyone vanishes their potions and gathers their stuff.

There’s only a couple stray giggles when Harry falls in step with Draco as they leave the classroom.

“That’s a whole extra hour of nothing to do.” He points out.

Draco scoffs. “Nothing? You mean you’ve finished the fifteen inches McGonagall assigned _and_ the ten inches Binns gave us?”

“Well, no.” Harry just grins. “We could work on it by the lake?”

Draco stares at him; he considers the offer, even though he knows he’s going to say yes no matter what. He’d get more homework and studying done if they _weren’t_ together every time it came up, but where’s the fun in that?

He gestures to the far end of the hallway where the entrance to the grounds is. “Lead the way.”

 

 

 

Once they’re settled, books scattered about and parchment in hand, Harry opens his mouth.

“I’ve got my question.”

Over the edge of his book, Draco watches him.

“You’re going to get annoyed.”

Brow furrowing, Draco frowns. “Why would you ask me something that’s going to annoy me?” His tone is two steps ahead and already veering into dangerous territory.

“Because I want to know.”

Still frowning, Draco sighs. “Fine, then. Out with it.”

“Why did you let me become your friend?”

Draco sets down his textbook slowly. “Really?” Amazingly enough, he’s not annoyed. He supposes it’s a fair question; he interrogated Harry’s motives and if he thinks about it, he’s a little surprised it’s taken his boyfriend—and that word, that thought still makes Draco's insides do flips— \this long to do the same.

“Really.” Harry’s expression is a little stony. “When I sat next to you that day, I fully expected to get punched in the face.”

Draco snickers. “I wouldn’t have—not _these_ days. Maybe if you’d tried that back at the start of sixth year, or something. But…” Draco chews his lower lip. “It’s like you said, we’ve all been through a lot. A lot of _shit_. Why should I keep being a prat when there’s nothing to be gained for it?”

He thinks back to the first time they met. Truly met, even though he does vaguely recall the moments spent together in Madame Malkins. And he thinks of Harry’s disdain for him.

“Besides,” Draco tries to infuse some touch of levity, even if it’s more self-deprecating than anything. “I wanted you to be my friend back in first year, didn’t I? That never really changed.”

Harry’s eyes widen and they sparkle brighter in the late afternoon sun. “Really?”

“Of course it didn’t.” Draco picks at the grass around them rather than look at Harry. “You think I went around making stupid buttons for all the people who annoyed me?”

Harry is quiet for a while, long enough that Draco eventually dares to look at him again. “You know, if it helps, Ron and Hermione always told me I as obsessed with you.”

Draco’s face warms. “Really?” He mimics.

Harry doesn’t shy away. No, he scoots closer until their thighs are touching. “Really,” he agrees. “Especially sixth year. Didn’t matter that I was right and you were up to something. They always thought I was being… weird.”

“Had I known, I probably would’ve called you weird as well.”’

There’s a tension simmering around them. The tendrils of their past curling around them, here and now, but not so tight it’s painful. Draco almost feels content. Their little life here at Hogwarts isn't a fantasy, and everything they've left behind left its own scars. 

“Are we mad for thinking this could work?” Harry asks after a while. Their books are abandoned at their feet and they’ve been watching the lake roll gently.

“Probably.” Draco looks over at Harry and finds him staring back. “Does it matter?”

“No.” Harry grins—and Draco is absolutely dubbing that smile, the one where the left corner of Harry’s lip turns up a little more than the right, the _Malfoy-Smile_. In his head, at least.

Harry grins, and kisses him.


	8. scarecrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco's not afraid he's just... Okay, maybe he's a little afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more development, more learning, more fluff!

“I’ve got a question.”

Draco looks up from his books. They’re actually in the library today; it’s just chilly enough outside that studying by the lake isn’t an option. It’s quiet in here, if a bit boring. Harry hasn’t studied one bit since they sat down. Draco’s made progress, if only minimal amounts.

“Okay,” Draco says.

“Why don’t you, er.” Harry picks at a loose thread on his robe. “Why don’t you use magic to bind?”

Draco sits up a little straighter. “It’s not good for you.”

Harry’s minor embarrassment turns to interest. “Really? Why?”

“I’d basically be using a lackluster version of _incarcerous_ . _Incarcerous_ is meant to bind so that the person can’t move, and the lesser spell functions the same way. It’s difficult to adjust the tightness. Not to mention it’d be exhausting, having to focus on that all day long.” Draco returns to his paper even though he’s lost his train of thought. He stares at what he’s already written, hoping the thread will come back to him.

“And the binder--it’s specially made?”

Draco nods and taps his quill along the margins of his parchment. “Yes, measured to my frame. All of them are. Would I settle for anything less?”

Harry grins. “Not even close.”

 

 

 

“Why don’t you sit with us at dinner tonight, Draco?” Granger asks politely.

Draco blinks—he hadn’t been asleep, just resting his eyes. Despite the obnoxious color scheme, the Gryffindor common rooms are deceptively comforting. Or maybe not so deceptively. Why he bothers keeping up the pretense of thinking the red-gold combination is hideous, he’s not entirely sure.

“Draco?” Granger tries again.

“Sorry.” He rubs his eyes and sits up straighter. “What was the question?”

“Why don’t you sit with us at dinner tonight?”

Draco stares at her. “Is that a good idea?” They’re alone in the common room for the time being. Harry and Weasley are the only other ones, and they’re engrossed in a game of chess.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You’re not stupid, Granger.” Draco tells her. “I know I’m still not the most popular person according to Gryffindors. Hell, according to the whole school.” He shrugs. “I think I’ll pass.” He’s walked to the Great Hall with them before, but they—Harry and Draco, meaning—have always split up, gone to their appropriate tables.

Granted, it’s not unusual for houses to mingle at each other’s tables. It’s just not something Draco and Harry have ever done.

Granger frowns. “No one is going to hurt you, if that’s what you’re scared of.”

“I’m not scared of anything,” he replies sharply. “I just don’t see why I should. This is nice, isn’t it?” He gestures to their books spread around them, over to Harry and Weasley in their game. “This is plenty.”

Granger’s eyes narrow. “I think you’re scared.” She sits back and closes her book with a _snap_. “You shouldn’t be. I wouldn’t say it’s a baseless fear,” she concedes. “But between Harry, Ron, and myself there’s no way anyone would try to harass you.”

Draco doesn’t reply except to quietly start packing up his supplies.

“It’d make Harry happy, you know.”

He glares. “That’s low.”

Granger just shrugs. “It would.”

Draco stares at her and Granger stares back, unflinching. It hurts his pride, just a bit, but Draco breaks the staring contest. Books and parchment and quills sufficiently stuffed away, he slings his bag over his shoulder and stands.

“You going?” Harry calls out.

Draco feels caught, even though he wasn’t _trying_ to leave undetected. He fully intended to bid Harry a ‘see-you-later,’ but he still feels caught. He walks over to where Harry sits, nodding as he goes. “I want to drop my bag off at the commons before dinner.”

“You could always leave it here, come back after,” Harry tells him, like he always does.

“No, it’s alright.” Draco leans over Harry and murmurs, “bishop to B-5.”

“That’s cheating,” Weasley grouses as the three of them watch Harry’s bishop destroy one of his pawns.

“All fair.” Draco tells him. He smiles down at Harry and his chest warms when he gets a grin in return. “See you later?”

“Alright,” Harry agrees. They squeeze hands briefly, comforting, before Draco ducks his head and walks toward the portrait.

 

 

 

Draco stands just outside the Great Hall and ignores the stares. He’s been standing there for a little over five minutes, and people are noticing. Not that he’s blocking the way, just drawing attention to himself like a complete twat. People walk around him and gawk at him as they go.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. All he’s got to do is walk in, sit down, and enjoy dinner for god’s sake. The problem is just _which_ table he’s going to sit at.

Which, really, is stupid to be fussing over at all. He knows where he ought to sit.

Finally he steps into the Great Hall and ignores the few sighs of relief around him. He also ignores Blaise’s pinpointed stare from across the room. He keeps his eyes trained on three things—three mops of hair, to be particular. One red, one black, and one brown and frizzier than the rest.

He sits beside Harry suddenly without saying a word and nearly gets a lapful of pumpkin juice for his troubles.

“Draco?”

“Yes?” A plate materializes in front of him and he starts to pile it with the food closest to him.

“You do—you do realize where you’re sitting, right?” Harry’s question is followed by a dull thud, a muttered swear, and Granger looking imploringly at Harry. “I mean. Uh.”

“I just thought it’d be nice.” Draco doesn’t quite grit out the words, but it’s a close thing.

“It is!” Harry says it too loudly. It earns him another kick to the shins underneath the table. “Er.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

Draco looks up, fork poised with a piece of brisket part way to his mouth. “Good.”

Harry blinks, then nods. “Good.”

 

 

 

“So, what was tonight about?” Harry’s leaning against a slab of wall not covered in portraits. The paintings on either side are looking at him disdainfully but he pays them no mind.

Draco shuffles his feet and adjusts his bag on his shoulder. “Nothing, I just thought it’d be nice to eat dinner together. Like a normal couple.”

Harry grins lopsidedly. “It was nice. I appreciate you doing that.”

“It wasn’t awful,” Draco agrees carefully. “It was Granger’s idea.” He admits in a rush. “I mean, I’d thought about it before but she’s a _menace_ , you know, and goaded me into it.”

Harry’s hands on his shoulders startle him. “It’s fine.” Harry gives him a gentle shake. “I appreciate it, yeah?”

Draco nods. He tilts his head up and is rewarded with a kiss for his efforts. “I should get going,” he sighs as they pull away.

“See you in the morning? We could walk to breakfast together.”

Heart hammering, Draco nods again. “Alright.” Draco flashes Harry a tentative smile. “Good night, Harry.”

“Night, Draco.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my 'scarecrow' inspiration was the 'baseless fear' definition of it--as you probably noticed. it was just easier than trying to work in an actual scarecrow.


	9. pumpkins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang carves pumpkins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is nothing but fluff and self indulgence. enjoy!!
> 
> also if you noticed i posted chapters out of order, shhhh....

“You want to do what?”

Harry beams. “Carve pumpkins! Hagrid picked out a couple perfect ones for us.”

Draco just looks at Harry blankly.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never carved a pumpkin before.”

“Not  _ never  _ .” Draco assures. “Just, not in…” He idly counts them off in his head. “A while,” he eventually decides.

Harry’s already shaking his head. “That won’t do, now you’ve  _ got  _ to carve them with us.”

“And who exactly is ‘us?’”

“Just Ron and Hermione, and Hagrid of course.”

Draco nods slowly. “Alright.”

It isn’t until they’re walking toward Potions that Harry mentions, “oh! We don’t use magic for it, by the way.” Then he slips off to his seat beside Granger before Draco can protest.

“Your best friend is a nuisance,” Draco tells Weasley as he takes his own seat.

He just snorts. “Yeah, but he’s  _ your  _ boyfriend.”

Draco frowns. He’s got a point.

 

 

 

“Malfoy! Glad ya could make it!”

Draco bites his tongue on a snappish retort and just nods. Hagrid waves him over to where they’ve set up a table, five pumpkins on it. All are large, and perfectly rounded. No lumps or bumps or rot. Rather pristine pumpkins, actually.

“We’ve already got ‘em ready, now’s all that’s left is ta carve ‘em!” Hagrid sounds positively delighted and Draco manages a meager smile in return. He stands beside Harry at the table.

“You’ll want to roll up your sleeves.” Harry tells him.

Draco rolls his eyes but does as told. He’d worn an older shirt as it was, anticipating… well, a mess. “What are you going to carve?” As he asks, Draco realizes he’s got no idea what  _ he’s  _ going to carve. He hasn’t done this in at least ten years, probably longer.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Me neither,” Weasley adds.

All eyes fall on Hagrid. “I was thinkin’ a dragon.”

Then, Granger. “I was thinking a cat?”

Weasley smiles at her, all dopey and in-love.

Harry picks up a pen and passes it to Draco. “You should sketch it out first.”

“I’m not an invalid.”

Harry halts, speaks slowly. “I know that.”

Cheeks burning, Draco snatches the pen up. He bites his tongue  _ again  _ , before he can make it worse. He feels out of place here, out in the open. No one cares, that’s become abundantly clear the more days go by without people looking twice at Draco. But it doesn’t stop the nagging sensation in the back of his head.

He turns his pumpkin away from Harry and aims for playful.

He must achieve it on some level, because when he looks up Harry’s eyes are bright.

 

 

 

“Okay, ready?” Granger announces with hesitation clear in her voice. “On three, we turn them around.”

Murmurs of agreement trickle around the table.

“One.” Her fingers tighten on the pumpkin. “Two…” She looks down at her carving and sighs. “Three!”

True to her word, Granger carved a cat. It’s simplistic, just an outline, but unmistakeable. Draco isn’t sure why she’s so shy, particularly when Weasley turns his around and Draco… Draco can’t tell what it’s supposed to be.

“It’s Hermione!” He announces.

Hagrid and Harry immediately make identical noises of understanding, little hums and ‘ah’s that are complete lies. Draco manages a weak smile and swallows a snicker.

Hagrid’s attempted a dragon. It’s not half bad, really. Like Granger’s, it’s simplistic. It’s got ridges along its back and a long tail and a little chunk cut out that’s probably meant to look like flames.

“Very nice, Hagrid,” Harry tells him genuinely. “I, er, made a broom?”

It looks like a long stick with a big burst of spikes at the end. Which, Draco supposes, a broomstick sort of is.

“It’s lovely, Harry,” Granger says around a chuckle.

Harry takes it gamely. “It’s shit, but it was fun.” He looks at Draco and drops his gaze to the pumpkin. “Bloody hell, Draco.”

“Yeah, mate, you were holdin’ out on us!” Weasley exclaims. “Hermione, look at this!”

“I see it, Ron,” she tells him. “It’s very nice, Draco.”

Draco knows he’s blushing, and he desperately wants to vanish, but he can’t. He looks down at his pumpkin. It’s just a simple outline of the castle, of Hogwarts. It is notable, he supposes. It’s not just  _ any  _ castle. It’s certainly clear that it’s Hogwarts.

“We’ll light ‘em all up and we can stick ‘em on my steps, how ‘bout that?” Hagrid asks.

Draco mumbles an agreement along with the others but before he can reach for his pumpkin, Granger is lighting them up with  _ lumos  _ and levitating them over to the steps of Hagrid’s rebuilt hut.

“It really is nice, Draco,” Harry tells him as they start to clear the table with  _ scourgifys  _ .

“Thanks.” He gestures vaguely at the castle. “It was just… right there.”

“Yeah, but if I’d tried that it would’ve just looked like a crooked line.”

Draco smiles, then shrugs. “Your broomstick was…”

“It was shit,” Harry laughs. “S’alright. You had fun, right?”

Draco looks over to where Hagrid is holding the door for Weasley and Granger, the three of them chattering about pumpkin seeds. “Yeah, I did.”

“C’mon, then. Let’s get something to eat.” Harry holds out his hand, and Draco takes it.  


	10. sweaters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Ron have a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is lots of fluff and some character exploration. enjoy!

Four packages land gracefully on the Gryffindor table—one for Weasley, Granger, Harry, _and_ Draco.

Draco stares at his, at the unrecognized handwriting on the note that’s come attached.

“S’from mum,” Weasley says around a mouthful of toast. “Told her ‘bout you n’Harry, and, uh.” He gulps. “You, y’know. And she wanted to make you something nice. S’probably a sweater.”

Draco frowns. “That wasn’t really… your secret to tell.”

Weasley shakes his head. “No, no, I know, didn’t really mean to. S’just.” He looks at Harry. “Tell him, Harry, you know how she is. She gets information outta you better than an Auror could, I reckon.”

Draco thumbs along one edge of the wrapping paper. “It’s not even Christmas yet.” He doesn’t tack on _far from it_. He doesn’t point out that it’s barely the middle of October.

“She doesn’t need an excuse to send us stuff.” Granger adds.

Draco nods, absently. “If you’ll excuse me.” He stands and leaves the present behind and strides—doesn’t _run_ —out of the Great Hall.

To his great surprise, a few minutes later it’s not Harry that finds him by the lake. It’s _Weasley_.

“Hey, look. I’m sorry for tellin’ mum about you, but I got a good reason, I swear.”

Draco doesn’t look at him.

“Listen, you know my brother Charlie, yeah? You heard of him?”

“He’s the one with the dragons, isn’t he?” Distantly, Draco thinks of first year. Of that baby dragon in Hagrid’s hut.

“Yeah, him!” Weasley’s grinning, Draco can see it from the corner of his eye. “He’s, he’s like you.”

Draco’s breathing catches. “What?”

“He’s trans, like you! How do you think I knew what your binder was, anyway?” Weasley looks impossibly pleased with himself.

“I… I hadn’t put much thought into it.”

“Figured as much.” Weasley punches him lightly on the shoulder, and Draco quickly realizes he might just be on his way to becoming friends with the red head. “It just kinda slipped out, during the firecall with mum. I mentioned, ‘hey, did you know Malfoy’s like Charlie?’ and… it just sort of escalated from there.

“She’s always been real protective of Charlie. He’s second oldest, you know. And he would’a been the first girl, which mum was real excited about. But, well I wasn’t alive back then—”

“Obviously,” Draco interjects with a grin.

Weasley— _Ron_ matches him. “Right. Well, I guess just before starting first year, Charlie told mum what he was feeling and… he was just, Charlie, after that.”

Draco feels dizzy, breathless, but lighter than he has in ages. “And he’s successful?”

“Oh yeah. He loves what he does, got a girlfriend I think he plans to marry soon. He’s real happy.”

Draco looks over. Ron’s staring at him intently. “You’re usually far more thick than this.”

Ron shrugs. “I didn’t want you to get pissed at me. We’ve been getting along pretty well this year, haven’t we?”

“We have.”

“And you really like Harry, huh?”

Draco scowls, which only prompts a laugh from Ron.

“He likes you too. He’s always been obsessed with you.” Ron shakes his head. “I think this was kinda inevitable. Even when he dated Ginny, it wasn’t gonna last.”

“Really, Ronald, your insightfulness is starting to frighten me.”

Ron just laughs again. “Let’s get back, yeah? Hermione said she was gonna talk to Slughorn, ask him to let us off for today. I think Harry’s probably in the common room.”

Ron turns and starts toward the castle; when he realizes Draco isn’t right behind him, he stops. “You coming?”

Draco nods. “Yes, alright.” He hurries over. “How did your mum know my size?”

Ron shrugs. “I don’t know how she knows anyone’s sizes. Not like she ever measured us. Mum magic, I figure.”

When Ron grins at him, Draco smiles back.

 

 

 

“Draco!” Harry stands immediately, and his hot chocolate tipping from his lap is only saved by a quick charm from Granger.

Draco steps through the portrait, sheepish. “Do you have my sweater?” He asks as he walks further into the Gryffindor common room. Harry nods eagerly and pulls the package, still wrapped, from the seat beside him.

Draco takes in Harry’s appearance and realizes he must be wearing his own gift. It’s a black sweater with a gold ‘ _H’_ on it, and his green eyes look impossibly brighter for it. A quick glance at Granger shows she’s wearing hers, as well. It’s blue, and her _‘H’_ is silver, threaded with a lighter shade of blue.

Ron grabs his sweater, unwrapped, from where it hangs over the back of a chair. He pulls it on over his t-shirt and sighs happily. His is red, a deep burgundy, and in classic Gryffindor fashion the _‘R’_ is bright gold.

“Go on then,” Ron insists. “I’m dying to see what color scheme she came up with for you.”

Draco nods and takes a seat in the same cushy chair his package had been in. Awkwardly belated, Harry sits too. He’s watching Draco carefully, and it’d be annoying if it weren’t a bit endearing, too.

He unwraps the gift carefully. He can’t… actually think of the last time he truly got a gift. Their last Christmas was tainted by Voldemort, as were most of the ones before that. Even indirectly. His mother tried in small ways when she could. But it was never anything like this. Handmade, with a careful touch.

Draco lifts the sweater up by the shoulders and tilts his head. “I can’t decide,” he announces, “if I’m disappointed or not.” The sweater is a deep emerald green, and the _‘D’_ on the front is silver, threaded with hints of gold. “I actually anticipated something more like yours, Ronald, just for the cheek of it.”

Ron grins. “Just you wait. Give it a bit. Guarantee you by Christmas, you’ll have a couple Gryffindor hats and scarves.”

Draco shrugs off his robe and tugs his sweater on over his white button down. Smoothing out the fabric, he replies, “one can only hope.”

He looks over at Harry, who’s still staring at him.

Ron and Granger busy themselves with chatter, so Draco takes the opportunity presented.

“Harry?” Draco reaches out. Nerves he didn’t realize were there calm when Harry takes his proffered hand. “I’m fine, you know.”

“Well, clearly.” Harry shakes his head and lets out a shuddering breath. “You took off without a word, I thought… Hell, I don’t know what I thought.”

“It wasn’t Ronald’s secret to tell, and that upset me. But he explained everything, and I’m fine. We’re fine.” Draco squeezes Harry’s hand. “Are you fine?”

“Really? You’re asking me?”

“You’re the one still upset.”

“No, I’m not upset. Honest!” Harry insists when Draco shoots him a disbelieving look. “I was just worried, okay?”

Draco grins. “Okay.” He looks over to where Ron and Granger are canoodling. “You’ve got good friends,” he adds.

“They’re your friends too,” Harry whispers back.

Draco looks away, back to Harry. “I know.”


	11. candles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A candlelit dinner goes awry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a little date night for the boys! enjoy!

All in all, it’s not the _worst_ date Draco’s ever had.

 

 

 

“What is this?” Draco asks as he steps into the Room of Requirement. An unpleasant chill runs up his spine as he goes, but he ignores it. The room looks nothing like he last saw it—most notably, there isn’t a roaring flame or the scent of burnt flesh. No, the room now is timid and simple and soothing.

“Er, a date?” Harry replies. He’s standing beside a cute little circular table; it’s got an off-white tablecloth thrown over it, with a three pronged candelabra in the center. The candles are flickering and Harry is fidgeting nervously.

“Well, clearly.” Draco says with a smile. “I meant—why?”

“Just because?”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Are you cursed to only ask questions this evening?”

“No!” Harry scowls goodnaturedly and reaches for Draco as he gets close. “I just wanted to do something nice that wasn’t in the commons or the Great Hall.”

Draco nods. Harry’s hands find his waist and Draco’s hands find Harry’s shoulders. “It’s lovely, Harry.”

Harry grins, proud, then sheepishly admits, “the room set it up.”

“Of course it did.”

 

 

 

It’s all going wonderfully—chatting, sickeningly sweet staring, flirting, delicious food courtesy of the elves—until Harry slaps his hand against the table.

He’s laughing when it happens; Draco’s smiling, up until the candelabra wobbles on the table. It tips over before he can even try to stop it, either with his hands or with a spell. Harry is still laughing too much to notice, and by the time he does the tablecloth has already caught fire.

Draco shoots out of his chair and stumbles back as his vision suddenly narrows. It’s nothing like the fiend fyre: not nearly as warm or thick, there’s hardly any smoke and again, _no burning flesh_. But it’s enough. Between the location and the presence of fire, Draco’s traitorous mind drags him back to earlier in the year.

Such a small candelabra shouldn’t make such a quick flame, but if Draco had to guess he’d say it’s because of the charmed nature. The magic makes the tame spark erupt, even just for a moment, and Draco can’t breathe.

He shuts his eyes and continues to wander backwards until he hits the wall. He sinks to the ground and closes his hands over his ears.

Hours later—or maybe it’s only minutes, or perhaps it’s eons—heavy hands on his shoulders startle him. Draco unfurls slowly and lifts his head cautiously.

The fire is gone. It probably hadn’t lasted very long to begin with, Draco thinks. The tablecloth seems to still be mostly intact.

“Draco?” Harry asks. His thumbs are rubbing circles on Draco’s shoulders.

“I’m fine,” he croaks.

Harry smiles sadly. “I don’t think that’s _fine_. Can you stand?”

Draco nods, then stops. He reaches out and braces himself on Harry’s arms and together they manage to stand up straight. Draco shamelessly leans his weight against Harry and sighs. “Sorry about that.”

“What’re you sorry for?” Harry scoffs. “I was the git that knocked over the candles.”

“It shouldn’t have been such a big deal. I just—?”

“I know,” Harry says. “I saw it too, for a second.”

Draco raises his head from Harry’s neck. “Really?” He asks, flat and disbelieving.

“Really,” Harry agrees. “I have nightmares about that night—I mean, I have about a million nightmares about the war. But when the fire started… Those are some of the worst.”

Draco nods. “I hate them.”

“Me too.” Harry’s arms slowly curl around Draco’s body and draw him close. He kisses the blond’s hair and then speaks against the soft locks. “I never seem to save you, in those.”

Draco stiffens. He tightens his fist in Harry’s robes. His mind is racing but he doesn’t know what to say to that—what can you say to that?

“There’s still dessert, if you’re up for it,” Harry says after a while.

Draco nods.

They break apart reluctantly and Harry catches Draco’s hand as soon as they’re apart. He leads Draco back to the table. The table which looks just as it did when the night began, sans the candelabra. The tablecloth isn’t singed and there’s no lingering scent of smoke.

Draco smiles and takes his seat, watches Harry do the same.

“Thank you,” Draco says as their desserts appear with a faint pop.

“Thank you,” Harry replies without hesitation. When their eyes meet across the table, they share a grin.


	12. apple pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Blaise bake. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _technically_ , the prompt is apple pie, but i went with treacle tart, because it was just more fitting. it's still apple, so it counts. 
> 
> just go with it.
> 
> <3

“Why don’t you just buy him one?”

Draco looks up frantically. Blaise stands across the table from him with his arms crossed over his chest.

“It’d be far easier than…” Blaise sweepingly gestures to the books strewn around Draco. “Than this.”

“It would also be emotionally worthless.” Draco snaps as he looks back at the fifth recipe book he’s tried. Perhaps the error of his ways is trying to comb through recipe books in the Hogwarts library: the ones that _aren’t_ potions are still bizarre foods that no one in their right mind would eat. He wrinkles his nose at the thought.

Blaise sighs and falls into a seat opposite Draco. “Do you want some help?”

Draco freezes again. “What?”

“I _said—_?”

“No, no, I heard you.” Draco narrows his eyes. “Why are you offering to help? You hate Potter.”

“I don’t _hate_ him.”

“Fine. You don’t _care_ enough to help. Or do anything.”

Blaise flashes him two fingers. “You’re clearly arse over tits for him, I’m trying to be a good friend.”

Draco continues to stare. “But you’re not a good friend.” He says it with an edge of teasing; Blaise is a decent friend, and has been there when Draco needed him. He’s also been absent plenty, a bystander rather than active participant in life.

“That’s why I said _trying_. If you don’t want my help, that’s fine.”

“No, wait.” Draco says as Blaise starts to stand. “Did you have an idea, aside from just buying one?”

Blaise nods and settles back into the chair. “I can bake.”

Draco half-laughs, half-scoffs. “Right. Thanks anyway.”

Blaise rolls his eyes. “I can. What ingredients do we need?”

“Well, that’s the issue. None of these bloody books have a recipe for apple treacle tart.”

“Of course they don’t.” Blaise stands again, and doesn’t let Draco’s indignant noise stop him. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Wait!” Draco snaps again, then looks around guiltily. “It won’t mean anything if you bake it. _I’m_ his boyfriend.”

“Don’t remind me,” Blaise groans. “Fine, I’ll find a recipe, and you’ll bake it, while I tell you how. Okay?”

Draco spares another glance at the books. He nods in defeat. “Okay.”

 

 

 

“Do I want to know how you knew to get in?” Blaise asks as they scramble through the portrait into the kitchens.

“Potter,” Draco replies.

“Of course.”

The elves give them a wide berth; one oven is available for them along with a minimal amount of counter space. The ingredients they need are all sitting on the counter, as are the tools they’ll need. Rollings pins and bowls and whisks and such.

“I made the dough the yesterday,” Draco mentions.

Blaise looks faintly scandalized.

“It was going to take too long if I waited for you!” He gestures to the ball of dough sitting in a bowl. “Besides, I think it turned out fine. This way we can get right to the whole… apple part.”

“I’m already regretting this.”

 

 

 

Just shy of two hours later finds them both sweater, robes off and shirt sleeves rolled up, tart finished and cooling on the counter.

“That wasn’t terrible,” Draco remarks.

“I hate you.” Blaise grabs his robe. “Potter is really worth this?” He asks as he slings the robe over one arm. It’s far too warm in the bustling kitchens to slip it back on. Not to mention it’s covered in flour and bits of dough and apple, like the rest of him. He even has spots of white in his hair.

Draco stares at the treacle tart. It’s not quite what he had in mind. Certainly not as pretty as he hoped. But it’s something. “Yes,” he replies confidently.

Blaise groans again. “Don’t drag me into this again.”

“You offered!” Draco hollers after him as the other Slytherin heads to the door. Blaise just shrugs and then he’s gone.

An elf appears beside Draco. “Would Mr. Malfoy like the treacle tart set aside for now?”

Draco startles, then looks down at the elf. “Yes, please. We’ll be in the room of requirement again tonight.”

The elf nods. “It will be delivered when you need it.”

 

 

 

“What’s this?” Harry asks with a grin.

This time, it’s Draco that stands nervously in the room of requirement. There’s no table, only a plush couch; there’s no candelabra, just plates levitating in front of said couch. “It’s a date,” Draco tells him.

Harry laughs and hurries up to Draco. He kisses him briefly. “What for?”

“You did something nice for me, I wanted to return the favor.”

Right on queue, the treacle tart appears next to the floating plates. The faint pop of sound catches Harry’s ear and he looks over.

“Apple treacle tart?” He asks slowly, delight spreading across his face.

“Homemade.” Draco adds.

Harry stops. “You made this?”

Draco nods.

“In the kitchen?”

“You showed me how to get in, I took advantage of it.”

Harry grins wider than Draco has ever seen. “It looks great, Draco. Thank you.”

“Yes, well, let’s see if it tastes as good as it looks.”

They each take a seat on the couch and the tart starts to dish itself up. Draco raises his fork but doesn’t dig in; he looks over to Harry and watches him start to eat, first.

Harry chews thoughtfully once the first bite has passed his lips. He tilts his head from side to side, nods a bit. Eventually, he swallows.

“Well?” Draco asks.

Harry snickers. “It’s great. You should try it.” Harry gestures to Draco’s plate.

Draco sighs. He spears a bite on his fork and eats it hurriedly. It’s _not_ bad, funny enough. Perhaps not the greatest treacle tart to grace his palate, but it’s certainly edible. That’s saying something.

Harry is laughing softly at him. “You look like you’re writing a ten inch review in your head.”

Draco knees him gently. “I’m just surprised, is all.”

“That you managed to bake something?”

“Something _edible_ , yes.”

Harry laughs. With a wink, he continues to eat. When he finishes his slice, Draco passes his own over. Harry eats that, too, and one more slice after that before begging off any more.

They sit back on the couch.

“Thank you, Draco.”

Draco’s heart skips a beat and his stomach fills with warmth. “You’re welcome, Harry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i decided this chapter was meant to sort of mirror the previous one, but a little more light-hearted. also, i couldn't be arsed to delve deeper into the treacle tart recipe, i just sorta... hand-waved it.
> 
> hope you liked it!


	13. leaf pile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco jump in a pile of leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little bit of sexual tension, but not much. this is probably gonna be a slow burn as far as that goes (if it goes that far at all. i'm kind of making it up as i go along) 
> 
> anywho, enjoy!

Draco looks around cautiously, but knows he’s caught out when Harry squeezes his hand.

“Hey, it’s fine.”

“I know, I know,” Draco retorts. “It’s just… this is awfully public.”

Harry’s face contorts in amusement. “A date to Hogsmeade is fine, but a walk through the forest is a bit much?”

Draco glares. The back of his neck is warm and something in Harry's eyes has been heated and intriguing since they met up after lunch.

“Oh stop it. I’ve walked this path a dozen times. It’s safe, and I’ve never once come across someone else.” Harry squeezes his hand again and tugs him along for good measure. “C’mon, you’re gonna love it. It’s just a little further.”

Draco sighs but picks up his pace to fall back into step with Harry. “This better be good,” he warns, though his voice is more fond than anything else. He bumps shoulders with his boyfriend and gets a grin in response.

“It’s unseasonably warm,” Draco remarks when they’re still walking several minutes later.

“Would you rather it be cold and raining?” Harry asks. He stops to peer around a corner, and then nods. “Alright, we’re here.”

“Finally,” Draco says without heat. He lets Harry pull him along through pair of trees, and into a clearing. A wide, open clearing with greenish, brown grass and a large pile of green-gold-red in the center. “What…?”

“It’s a leaf pile!” Harry tells him. “I noticed it the other day, I figured we could goof off.”

“You want to goof off in a pile of leaves?”

“Well, yeah.” Harry looks at him. “Haven’t you ever jumped into a pile of leaves? It hasn’t rained too much this year yet, so the leaves should be good and crunchy.”

“You are an absolute mystery, Potter.”

Harry just keeps grinning. “C’mon, take off your robe.” He pulls off his own and drapes it over a low-hanging tree branch. Carefully, Draco does the same.

“You go first. Show me what this is all about,” Draco tells him and crosses his arms over his chest.

“No, no, we gotta do it together.” Harry holds out his hand again. And despite the somewhat clammy feeling in Draco’s palm, he takes the proffered hand and yet again lets Harry lead him along. “Okay, on three, we get a running start and jump into the pile. Alright?”

“We’re going to jump in…” Draco asks incredulously.

“We are,” Harry says. “Ready?”

“Potter, you’re—ah!” Draco lurches forward when Harry takes off suddenly, and it’s either stay still and lose his arm or start running.

Draco starts running, and when Harry shouts, “jump!” he jumps.

Immediately he’s overwhelmed with the strongest scent of fall. Earthy and slightly damp, like smoky air and trees in the wind. He gets a taste of the leaves when he opens his mouth to laugh. He feels like he’s swimming, or flying, until a hand closes around his arm and pulls him up.

“Well?” Harry asks. He’s got a leaf sticking out of his hair and several dozen clinging to his clothes. Draco imagines he looks much the same.

“Alright,” Draco concedes. “It was alright,” he teases.

Harry rolls his eyes and practically tackles Draco. They fall back into the pile together and Draco finds Harry’s lips in a kiss. In an instant, they both slow their frantic movements. Harry’s arms wind around Draco’s waist and Draco curls his own around Harry’s shoulders. They roll, leaves crunching underneath them, until Harry is pressed into the ground and Draco is sitting in his lap.

“Is this what you hand in mind, goofing around?” Draco asks against Harry’s lips.

“Not quite.” Harry says. “A bit,” he amends. “But not entirely.”

Draco kisses him again and sighs as a frisson of pleasure runs through him. “Better than?” He asks in a hush.

“Much.” Harry surges forward to capture Draco's lips again.

Draco gasps when Harry’s tongue brushes the seam of his lips, and he opens his mouth eagerly. He keens as their tongues glide against each other, and pulls back, breathing hard.

“Draco?”

“Sorry, sorry.” He feels the blush burning his skin. “I…” He exhales shakily. He kisses Harry again, briefly, chastely. “I haven’t been kissed like that, before.”

Harry’s eyes widen in surprise. “Really?”

Draco nods. “I haven’t done… much. Of anything. Not really time, you know, what with doing Voldemort’s bidding and all.” He shrugs.

Harry hums. “Was I your first kiss?”

“Not my first _ever_ . Just —the first like _that_ .” His blush is worsening and Draco wants to hide his face, but his only option would be to bury his face in Harry’s chest. And that’s counterintuitive to the whole getting _rid_ of the blush problem.

“First good kiss?”

“First _french_ kiss, you berk.” Draco kisses Harry before he can say anything else and immediately the passion resumes, sharp and insistent and overwhelming. Draco keens when Harry’s hands untuck his shirt and dance along his waistband. “Harry,” Draco hisses.

Harry takes the opportunity to pepper chaste pecks along Draco’s jaw and down his neck. “Yeah?” He hisses back.

Draco sighs and tilts his head to give Harry better access. He doesn’t think about Harry having done this before, doesn’t think about how Draco isn’t _Harry’s_ first.

“You’re thinking too much.”

Draco pulls back and frowns.

“I can hear the gears in your head turning.” Harry lays back and looks up at Draco. “You’re not my first,” he says plainly. “I mean, not my first kiss. And not my first french kiss.” To his credit, Harry looks vaguely apologetic—something Draco appreciates, even if he knows he’s being foolish.

“It’s stupid,” Draco says. “I’m being foolish.”

“No, no, I get it.” Harry’s hands, still on Harry’s waist, squeeze reassuringly. “You are my first boyfriend, if that helps at all.”

It does help. Draco’s heart leaps in his chest at the thought and he can’t help but grin. “It helps. A _bit_. Little bit.”

Harry winks and Draco can’t help but shiver. “Cold?” Harry asks.

“Not even remotely.”

Harry snickers. His hands move again, more determined, and start to carefully crawl up Draco’s chest. As they go they drag his shirt up as well, until Harry’s fingertips hit the line of Draco’s binder. The moment—and Draco’s breathing—freezes. “Should I avoid that?” Harry asks.

Draco’s brain stalls to a halt and kicks into overdrive. “What?”

“Should I not touch your binder?” Harry asks.

Draco sits up in a rush and powers through the dizzy feeling in his head to sparse out Harry’s words. “Why—why would you ask that?”

Harry stays flat on the ground; Draco is at least ratified to see the blush on Harry’s skin too, a mirror image of his own. “Because you being comfortable is important to me.”

Draco tugs self-consciously at the hem of his shirt and Harry’s hands fall away. “I mean… I know. I know that.” He looks down, and when he catches sight of the bulge at the front of Harry’s muggle jeans, Draco’s gaze snaps back up to his face.

“I know you’re just another guy, Draco,” Harry says. “But I don’t want to do anything that’s going to make you uncomfortable, or cause, uh.”

“Dysphoria?” He murmurs.

“Right,” Harry says, “that. It’s not because you’re trans, either. It’s because I want you to be comfortable. To feel _good_.”

Draco nods. “You are… too much, sometimes.” His heart feels like it might leap out of his chest, or his brain might melt out of his ears. But in good ways, in the best kind of way. He swallows his nerves and a hysterical laugh and just smiles, plain and simply.

Harry shrugs. He reaches for one of Draco’s hands and links their fingers. “If I ever do anything you don’t like, you’ll tell me, yeah? Or anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

“Of course. And you’ll do the same?”

“Yeah.” Harry sits up. He wraps an arm around the small of Draco’s back to keep him steady. “All good?”

“Yes, yes, kiss me again,” Draco says.

“Gladly.”


End file.
